Riding Dirty

by Jill Sorenson

  “I hope the big boys in the pen treated you nice,” Dimebag said. “Protected you in exchange for favors.”

  “They probably treated me better than your brother. Him being a rapist and all.”

  Dimebag’s eyes narrowed. “It’s too bad about your brother. I heard what happened. Roach got squashed.”

  Cole wasn’t going to put up with insults to Rylan. Not from any member of White Lighting, but especially not from some penny-ante drug dealer whose brother had raped Cole’s cousin when she was fifteen.

  Cole lowered his shoulder and charged, slamming Dimebag in his round midsection. It was harder than he’d figured, tense as a basketball. He almost bounced off. They both went down in a tangle of limbs, rolling over the curb.

  Cole’s strength was in his swing, so he should have just cracked Dimebag across the jaw. That wouldn’t have been as satisfying as full-contact, though. Cole scrambled for leverage and won, straddling Dimebag’s chest. Cole grabbed the front of Dimebag’s cut and slammed him a few times. They were in the gutter, with Dimebag’s ugly mug next to the curb. Because of their respective positions, Cole couldn’t use his powerful right hook.

  Dimebag could.

  He punched Cole in the jaw, hard. Cole’s head rocked to the side and he lost his grip on Dimebag’s cut. They tumbled into the middle of the street, trading blows. Cole landed a few brutal strikes to Dimebag’s left eye. Dimebag popped Cole in the nose.

  Cole ended up on top again, his nostrils streaming blood. Unfortunately, Dimebag had another nasty surprise in store. He reached for a weapon at his ankle. And then Cole was staring down the barrel of a .38.

  Cole’s stomach dropped. He lifted his palms and rose, backing up a few steps.

  “You’re not so tough now, are you?” Dimebag said, his eye twitching. “How does it feel to be the one without a weapon?”

  If Dimebag thought his brother had been unarmed when Cole stabbed him, he was wrong. Jester had picked up a metal pipe during their fight. Instead of walking away, Cole had broken the end of a bottle and driven it home.

  Jester had survived, by some miracle. Rylan hadn’t. That was life.

  Cole could have made different choices back then. He could have chosen not to tackle Dimebag tonight. But he hadn’t. And now he was going to pay. His heartbeat pounded in his ears and he swallowed hard, picturing Mia.

  Mine.

  Someone stepped from the shadows at the fence line, holding a cigar with a bright cherry. It was his uncle.

  Thank God.

  “Put that away,” Bill said to Dimebag. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

  Dimebag tucked the gun into his waistband. “He charged me.”

  “I don’t give a damn what he did,” Bill said. “If you ever draw on my nephew again, I’ll shove the barrel up your ass. Now go home before I let him tear you apart.”

  Cole pinched the bridge of his nose and watched Dimebag do as he was told. That’s when it dawned on Cole that the two men were working together. A little part of his soul died at this realization, taking with it the last vestiges of his childhood. “We need to talk,” Cole said to his uncle.

  “You need to settle down,” Bill countered, his lip curled in derision. “Look at you.”

  Cole stopping pinching his nose and let it bleed. Moving closer, he said, “Look at me? Look at you.”

  Bill stood his ground. “You’re a mess.”

  “Only on the outside.”

  “Right,” he scoffed.

  “I’m getting some ice,” Cole said. “Meet me at the Jacuzzi tub.”

  His uncle probably didn’t like his tone, but Cole couldn’t be dissuaded. They had to discuss this situation right now. It was un-fucking-acceptable. He strode to the nearest ice machine and filled a plastic container with ice. His hands were shaking from the close call. Carrying the bucket to the pool, which was free of hotel residents, he removed his shirt and blotted his nose. The bleeding had slowed. He made an ice pack with the stained fabric, holding it to his battered face.

  He’d be fine. Nothing was broken. He was alive.

  His uncle reappeared, clad in army-green swim trunks. Cole stripped to his boxers. Sitting on the side of the Jacuzzi tub, he made sure his ankle monitor was covered with the wetsuit material before he submerged his feet. He’d gotten into the habit of leaving the neoprene on his shin and pulling it up or down when necessary. He hoped the fabric muffled his conversations with Mia, on the off chance that his monitor had a listening device. What Cole was about to discuss with his uncle required absolute assurance that they wouldn’t be heard.

  Bill turned on the bubbles and got in, still puffing on his cigar. He was fit and broad-shouldered, military trim. Despite a love for Cubans and booze and criminal activities, he appeared as healthy as a horse. Cole’s entire body throbbed with resentment.

  “You okay?” Bill asked, studying his face.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Where were you earlier?”

  “Trying to get laid.”

  “You have to try?”

  Cole shrugged, feeling surly.

  “I thought you just said hello and their panties dropped.”

  “Not all of them.”

  “Well, well,” Bill said.

  “Well what?”

  “It’s about time you found a nice girl instead of screwing every slut in town.”

  Cole didn’t want to talk about his sexual predispositions. Last week, Bill had accused him of liking prison boys. This week he liked sluts too much. He couldn’t win. “What are you doing with that white trash lowlife?”

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” Bill said, taking another pull off his cigar. “I don’t answer to you.”

  Cole shifted the ice pack to another spot, annoyed.

  “Maybe you think time stood still while you were away. Nothing changed and no one moved and we all sat around jerking off, waiting for you. Is that it?”

  “I didn’t think you’d team up with our enemies.”

  “There was a meth war last year,” Bill said. “It got ugly. I didn’t want that cartel shit in my town.”

  “So you let the rival club bring it in?”

  “Someone is going to sell it here no matter what. That’s reality. At least White Lightning pays me for the privilege.”

  “They pay you for protection.”

  “I keep the peace,” Bill growled, tossing his cigar aside. “That’s what you don’t get, because you love to fight first and think later. With only one major player in the area, there’s no blood in the streets.”

  “What if they want to diversify? Pick up some local girls and put them to work.”

  “I don’t care what they do with club whores.”

  “I’m not talking about club whores, and you know it.”

  White Lightning was known for treating its groupies like slaves, but Cole assumed those women weren’t being held against their will. The main issue was the club’s connection to underground sex trafficking. Cole had heard about teenage girls being forced into prostitution. He wasn’t on board for that.

  Drugs had been a part of Dirty Eleven since its inception. They’d made a shit-ton of money in marijuana. Gunrunning and transporting other illegal goods had been lucrative. Bill had dabbled in meth on and off. Cole didn’t like it. Meth dealers were either ruthless killers or junkie flakes. Cole understood his uncle’s choice, but he wouldn’t have voted to collaborate with White Lightning. Their involvement in meth and prostitution rings was troubling, but the real dealbreaker was personal.

  Jester Arno had raped Cole’s cousin.

  Dirty Eleven MC had been born in response to this violent act. Bill used to be a member of White Lightning. After the attack on his daughter, he’d formed his own club and established strict rules about criminal behavior. Cole had joined at twenty-one, as soon as he was released from prison. He’d loved everything about the club. Its freedoms and its regulations. The family aspect and brotherly camaraderie. He felt as if he belonged to th
is motley crew of outlaws, more than he’d ever belonged anywhere else.

  “We have a code about women,” Cole reminded him. No rape, no wife beating, no female victims. No exceptions.

  His uncle rubbed a hand down his face, where condensation had built. He looked old and tired, like the suntanned snowbirds who moved to the desert postretirement. “I’m not involved in their other business interests. What they do outside of Indio is none of my concern.”

  Cole couldn’t call him on the lie. According to Ace, Bill had collaborated with White Lighting on at least one other job: the kidnapping that had cost Rylan his life. Cole wanted to ask Bill what the fuck he’d been thinking.

  “I heard you went to see Ace,” Bill said.

  Cole set down the ice pack, wondering if his uncle was having him followed. “I saw him. So what?”

  “What did he say?”

  “Just that he wanted custody of Skye, but he didn’t think Shawnee would let her go.”

  His uncle grunted in response. “Did he tell you why Shawnee wants to keep her?”

  “He was pretty tight-lipped about it, but I didn’t have to ask. I know Shawnee.”

  Bill gave him a sharp look. Shawnee was clingy, demanding, voracious in her love. Shawnee had doted on Courtney and been blind to her faults, including the drug addiction that she’d succumbed to. Shawnee couldn’t bring back her daughter, but she could hang on to Skye. Cole imagined she’d never let go.

  “I don’t suppose he mentioned that he’s doing wet work,” Bill said.

  Wet work meant blood. Assassin for hire.

  “I’d steer clear of Ace if I were you. I think he does contracts with AB, and anyone else who can afford his price.” His uncle climbed out of the Jacuzzi tub, water dripping down his legs. “The next time you see him might be your last.”

  A chill traveled along Cole’s spine at the cryptic words. He watched his uncle exit the pool area, his mind reeling. Cole wasn’t sure if his uncle had just warned him away from Ace for his own good—or threatened to kill him for insubordination.

  CHAPTER NINE

  COLE SHOWERED AND shaved after work, eager to see Mia again.

  He wasn’t looking forward to his visit with Vargas, however. Before Cole left his hotel room, he tucked the neoprene muffler into his pocket and studied his face in the mirror. His jaw was bruised from the fight with Dimebag. Mia would notice and be disappointed in him. Vargas would ask about it. Cole had to give him some information today. Real information, the kind that could put his uncle behind bars.

  Gut churning, Cole locked the front door behind him and climbed on his bike. It was a short ride to the bland medical building in the industrial center of town. He parked and went inside. Vargas and his stooge were waiting for him in the office down the hall from Mia’s. Cole felt a fresh stab of anxiety as he entered the room.

  Did they know about him and Mia?

  “You’re late,” Vargas said.

  He always was.

  Cole took a seat at the table, across from Vargas. His partner, Assistant Investigator Edwin Bruce, was standing in the corner. Vargas was a tall, intimidating Mexican with no sense of humor. His suits were neatly pressed and his shoes polished. He was slick. Something about him looked cruel, as if he enjoyed hurting people.

  Bruce was a sandy-haired white guy, a rookie, stocky and fit. He was Vargas’s little bitch. Cole kicked off his boot and rolled up his pant leg to give Bruce access to his ankle monitor. They didn’t trust Cole to take care of the device on his own, so recharging it here was part of their biweekly routine. Bruce plugged it in and returned to his corner. Cole didn’t acknowledge the man’s presence.

  “What have you got for us?” Vargas asked.

  Cole had a few options for this meeting. His first was to say nothing. Vargas wouldn’t pull him from the assignment this early. Law enforcement was a bureaucracy, like prison. Making a change required paperwork and judge orders and endless red tape bullshit.

  Cole’s second option was to feed Vargas misinformation. Doing so might get Cole fired, but he’d like to see how long he could get away with it.

  His third option was to give up Dimebag Arno. Cole had reservations about implicating Dimebag and White Lightning, but only because his uncle might go down with them. He didn’t want to betray a family member unless he had no other options.

  After two nights of soul-searching, Cole had decided on number three. He’d thought about Mia a lot. Although he couldn’t hope for a future with her, he wanted better for himself. He wanted to change. He also wanted to survive. Refusing to cooperate with the cops meant going back to Chino and finishing his sentence. He couldn’t get a transfer at this late stage. The next time AB came for him, he might not be so lucky.

  Cole’s family loyalty went only so far. He’d spent almost four years in prison for arson. Cole wasn’t sorry he’d torched the liquor store of a known wife beater, but he resented the hell out of the circumstances. Bill had loaned the store owner money against Cole’s wishes. When the jerk didn’t pay, Bill ordered Cole to step in.

  Bill’s poor business decisions had also led to Rylan’s death, and he’d made veiled threats toward Cole. Why should Cole protect him?

  So he told Vargas about his run-in with Dimebag Arno, in limited detail. Cole didn’t mention his uncle’s interruption or their resulting conversation, but he did speculate that Bill was working with White Lightning.

  Investigator Bruce seemed surprised by the news. Vargas remained impassive, his expression bland. Nothing rattled him.

  “You suspect your uncle of taking a cut of their drug earnings,” Vargas said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you discuss this with him?”

  “No.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “He doesn’t like to be questioned,” Cole said.

  “You have a history with the Arnos.”

  “So?”

  “It just seems a bit...ironic that you’ve offered information regarding the alleged criminal activities of your biggest rivals.”

  “You think I’m lying?”

  “Yes, I think you’re lying.”

  Bruce frowned as if he disagreed with Vargas. The rookie needed to learn to hide his emotions. He was too eager and earnest to be an effective interviewer. But Cole understood what Vargas was doing, even if Bruce didn’t.

  “I also think you’re withholding,” Vargas said. “There’s no way you caught Dimebag Arno on hotel property and didn’t ask your uncle about it.”

  “So you believe I fought Dimebag?”

  “I believe you fought someone.”

  “You’re welcome to pay him a visit. His left eye should tell the tale.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Good,” Cole said, glancing at Bruce. “I was beginning to think you guys would rather harass me twice a week than investigate. But that’s a typical cop thing, I guess. Shaking someone down is easier than getting off your asses.”

  Bruce took offense to this insult. His blue eyes narrowed into slits and he deferred to Vargas, as if asking permission to unleash on Cole.

  “Thank you for that thoughtful critique of our job performance,” Vargas said. “We’ll remember it if you’re ever in trouble.”

  Prick. Cole quit while he was ahead.

  “As entertaining as your stories about street fighting are, the information is worthless. You saw a member of a rival gang—”

  “Club,” Cole said.

  “Gang,” Vargas insisted. “You saw a piece of shit gang member at your uncle’s hotel. Maybe he was meeting his whore there.”

  Cole didn’t bother to argue with him. The DA investigator specialized in MCs. He knew as much about the business as any outlaw, if not more. There was no way a rival member would use his uncle’s hotel for pleasure. The Hidden Palms was Dirty Eleven territory.

  “I gave you a good tip, and you know it.”

  “I need you to ask your uncle about his involvement with Wh
ite Lightning.”

  Cole rubbed a hand over his mouth, as if considering it. “We’ll see.”

  Vargas leaned back in his chair. “I don’t think this is working out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re not holding up your end. The amount of time and effort we’ve invested in your assignment is disproportionate to what you’ve delivered so far. If you don’t question your uncle, I’ll pull you.”

  “You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?”

  Vargas just stared at Cole, unflinching. “Do we have an agreement, or should we take you back to Chino?”

  Cole wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. Vargas was bluffing; they wouldn’t pull Cole. “I can’t promise you anything.”

  After a long, tense moment, Vargas accepted this answer. “We need to talk about your ankle monitor.”

  “What about it?”

  “Have you tampered with it?”

  “No,” Cole said, his heart pounding. Now he understood Vargas’s urgency. At first, Cole had doubted that the monitor was bugged. Cops were cheap. Criminals often had better technology. But if the device had a voice recorder, Vargas probably knew Cole had been muffling it. That was the reason Vargas was pushing so hard for information. He had proof of Cole’s failure to cooperate.

  “Some parolees attempt to disguise their locations by covering the device with aluminum foil or other materials.”

  Cole arched a brow. “Does that work?”

  “Any deliberate interference will trigger the alarm.”

  “Has my alarm gone off?”

  “It’s not reporting your locations as often as it should.”

  “Huh.”

  “Let me take a look.”

  Cole stretched out his leg as Vargas knelt beside his chair. Cole stared at the top of Vargas’s head, looking for weak spots. His hair wasn’t thinning on top, but he had a few grays. Cole wouldn’t mind giving him a few more.

  “What about water?” Vargas asked.

  “What about it?”

  “You’re not supposed to submerge it.”

  “You said it was waterproof.”